The Sketcher.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 209, 11 September 1875, Page 6

The Sketcher.

PEOPLE’S HATS. (From the Globe.) There is probably no portion of human costume which exercises such tyranny over the soul of man as the hat. It is not for us to speak without presumption of the infinite interest which may he presented to the feminine soul by those ethcrial structures which pass for hats in the “modes,” but we are at liberty to discuss our own masculine head-dress as we please, and we generally please to consider it in no very heavenly frame of mind. The world in general, expressing itself in vague but terrorising laws, conveyed by implication in such phrases as “ Not fit to be seen,” “What will people say ?” “ Quite a fright,” “ A shocking bad hat,” and the like, shows a preference for hats that are new, and glossy, and expensive, and uncomfortable. The individual man, when he unbosoms himself in the secret confidence of devoted friendship, or in the reflections of profound solitude, confesses an attachment to old and battered and unpresentable hats. There never was a more sociably popular song than that with the sad refrain—Oh, how the times are altered, since this old hat was new !” There never was a more concentrated embodiment of popular scorn for novel display than the saying which imputed to the man who wore a white liat the crime of stealing the donkey. It might have been a relic of the political scorn of a bygone era, but for the vulgarity of the charge, which suggests a nearer relationship to costermougerdom than to the Country Party ; but it is recorded in the life of TomDuncombe, that “ Orator ” Hunt’s white hat “ was regarded as almost as significant as the Republican bonnet rowje in the Reign of Terror.” The famous member for Preston was not the only Radical leader with a preference for the chapeau blanc, for in contemporary history the antique white hat of Mr. Gladstone has furnished parliamentary sketch-writers with as many allusions as the Speaker’s wig. White hats are not the only head-coverings that have made their mark in politics. It is not many years since “Bockum-Dolff’s Hat” was the cause of a perfect fury on the Continent, and narrowly escaped the honor of becoming a casus belli. The late Sir James Graham’s hat was the innocent cause of a scandal on the first occasion when the House of Commons received a message from her Majesty. When Lord John Russell appeared at the bar to deliver that message, eight-and-thirty years ago, on the 21st of this month, Sir James kept his hat on in spite of cries of “ Hats off ! ” and the Speaker’s declaration that “ Members must be uncovered,” and only removed it after Lord John began to speak. The True Sun of that evening was very severe upon the supposed exhibition of disloyalty ; and, it was not until next day that Sir Janies was able to explain that he had followed the old parliamentary custom of waiting to hear the word “ Regina” (or “ Rex”) before lie took off his hat —as the more emphatic mode of showing respect for the Crown. At least, so it is recorded by Graham’s biographer, who says Mr. Speaker admitted, “ that the hou. member for East Cumberland was correct in his observance of the practice of the House ; and lie accounted for his own apparent deviation therefrom by his desire to preserve order and to save time.” According to a story told by Lord Campbell in his “ Lives of the Chancellors,” a strayed hat did good service in betraying the undue intimacy of Lord Thurlow with “ the first gentleman in Europe.” There being a Council meeting appointed to lie Held at Windsor to consider the Regency question, Thurlow went down before any of his colleagues. After the Council, the Chancellor’s liat could not be found. Thu chamber where the meeting was held had been searched in vain, when, as Campbell records the incident, “a page came with the hat in his hand, saying aloud, and with great naivete , ‘ Mv lord, I found it in the closet of his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.’ The other ministers were still in the hall, and Thurlow’s confusion corroborated the inference which they drew.” Nor is this the only country in which the hat lias played a political part. In the French war of classes the famous chorus of one of Bcranger’s songs —“ Chapeau bas ! chapeau has ! Gloire an Marquis de Carabas ! ” —bas produced as great an effect as the tradition of Gessler's hat and Toll’s contempt of it has had upon the freedom of Switzerland. It is curious enough, with these incidents in mind, to remember that the Swiss originally brought hats into fashion in France. The first of these articles of clothing made in Paris were manufactured by Swiss people, about -17<> years ago ; though it is said they did not come into general use until after Charles VII. had made his triumphal entry into Rouen in 1440, wearing a hat with a red velvet lining and gorgeous plume. Old Stow says the first hats in England were made here by Spaniards in 1510 ; and it appears that high crowns, which were first popular in the days of “ good Queen I3ess,” were out of fashion till 17 S 3, since

which time they have held their own, to the intense mortification of all sensible, easy-going people. In these days, when guinea hats are thought but moderate, the student of history may mourn for the sumptuary laws of “ bluff King Harry,” who fixed the minimum price of a hat at twenty pence. That ordinance must have been of short life, for, in the court of Henry’s daughter, Raleigh wore a ruby in the feather of his hat, and fixed the feather with a pearl instead of a button. That sort of headdress, if it came into use now, might justify an embarrassed Chancellor of the Exchequer in reviving the stamp duty which was placed on beavers in 1781 and again in 1780, and was repealed only in 1811. The difficulty would bo to levy such an impost without oppression ; for while here and there we may find a man who would be proud to pay a high acl valorem duty on his hat, and brag of it as some infatuated Americans do of their income tax payments, the class whoso exigencies condemn them to head-coverings lilce Sam Weller’s “patent wentilatiu’ gossamer ” is large enough to make as great a hubbub as the match-box makers who rendered Mr. Lowe’s life a burden to him. THE COST OF LIVING. (From London Spectator.) The author of the paper on “ The Cost of Living,” in the April number of the Cor ah. ill , is all wrong, and as, if he were right, he would be a most aggravating person, it may be worth while to tell irritated housekeepers why he is in the wrong. All his facts are, we doubt not, correct, but the instinct which so illogically or absurdly denies them all is, we think, correct too. In feminine phraseology, “ He may prove all he likes, and it doesn’t matter, because after all, you know, it isn’t so or in more masculine phrase, he has omitted one essential datum in his calculation. His thesis as he puts it is quite conclusive. You are bound, he says, when comparing the present with the past cost of living, to compare actual prices, and not prices as affected by new wants. You have no right to say rent is higher because you seek a bigger house, or education costs more because you desire a higher form of tuition, or rates are more oppressive when you want so many new comforts paid out for them. Your expense for lighting is not to be calculated by your bills for oil and gas, but by your bills as they would be if you required only the light with which your grandfather was content. You ought to compare the old article at its old price with the old article at its present price, and then you will find that there has in most departments of life been very little increase of cost at all. You can get the bad old accommodation at the old juice. You need not give any more for the apology for education. You can stay at home if you like, as your forefathers did, in sjnte of all the cost of modern travel. It is most unfair to count your increased wants as if they were increased privations, or as the writer jmts it, —“ Perhajjs the oddest, one might rather say the coolest, assumption often made in discussions uj>on this subject, is one which really amounts to a claim that all loss arising from increase of cost is to be regarded as a privation, and therefore a ground for comjdaint, whereas all saving arising from all diminution of cost or other directions may fairly be regarded as being swallowed ujr by the greater ‘ demands ’ of the juesent age. Beef and butter are dearer, therefore here is a privation ; but when it is urged on the other hand that travelling is vastly cheaper, the answer will very likely he, ‘Oh ! but j/eople are obliged to travel so much more now than they used to do ; every one does so now, even those who formerly never thought of such a thing, and therefore we, like others, are forced to do the same.’ Still more is the same answer resorted to in the case of every sort of social disjday. It need hardly be remarked that every jdea of this sort must he peremptorily rejected. After rejecting every plea, it will he found that the cost of living has scarcely increased, certainly not more than 10 per cent., if so much. Meat has about doubled in price, and rent outside London is a trifle dearer, say 20 per cent., but every other necessary excepting service is perceptibly cheaper. Taxes are less; the cost of travelling is less ; books cost less; clothes are nearly tire same, and servants’ wages, though they seem to have altered, do not in a household of £IOOO per antrum differ by £3O a year. Every word of this argument is as true as to all housekeepers over fifty it will be aggravating, and the whole of it is all the same distinctly false. The writer has forgotten or omitted one great factor in his jrrohlem,—namely, a definition of his ideas of “ necessaries.” The question is not whether a pound of meat now costs more or less than it did in 1800, but whether a meal costs more or less ; not whether “education” cart he obtained as cheaj/ly, but whether education of equivalent use does not cost more ; not whether “ living” is as cheap as of old, hut whether living in the same friendships is not very much more costly. The essayist is right wherr lie says there is no justice in jilacing good drainage against bad, and saying good drainage is the dearer ; blit ho is only right solmig as the drainage is optional, and not a matter of comjuilsion. The moment a jmrehase becomes inevitable, and inevitable for some other reason than the mere development of a new desire, the cost to the purchaser becomes a true addition to the cost of living ; and there have been many such additions. This very one of sanitation is such an addition. If it were open to a man to live as his grandfather lived, it would Ire unfair to quote the plumber's bill against the good old times, but in a city no such a choice is left to the economical housekeeper. He must pay his jdumber’s hill, or lie fined, or die of typhoid, and that hill is a direct increase to his inevitable expenses. To take an even better illustration, the cost of education as a necessity lias been extravagantly increased. It is quire true that our sons can get for £2O a year just as good an education as our fathers got for that amount, that is to say, as much of positive knowledge or positive discipline

of the mind, but then of the direct object sought through that education they cannot get so much. The middle-class man of 1800 bought for his son with his £2O a year a chance of success in life which he now scarcely buys for six or seven times that sum. One end, at least, of education is to obtain an armor for the battle of life ; and if that armor is essential, and not to bo obtained without increased expense, there lias been a direct addition to the cost of living. As a matter of fact, wo all know this has been the case. The essayi-t’s examplar, a jn-ofessional man in a country town with £IOOO a year, would in 1800 have been liberal if, with a family of two sons and two daughters, lie had spent £] 00 a year—that is a tithe of his income—on education, lie would now, unless very exceptionally fortunate, have to spend £33o—that is, a third of his receipts to secure identically the same article, that is, an education for his children which should fit them for their position as well as the previous generation was fitted for a third of the money. It is nonsense to say that the education is better. So is the meat. But a man wants within a fraction as many ounces a day of good meat as of indifferent, and education has become as great a necessary as food—that is to say, without it the man or woman of the professional grade is weak for the ordinary work of life. Education is a necessity, not luxury, and its increased cost, which is excessive, and will he greater yet, is a direct addition to the cost of living. So is the cost not of hiring servants, but of feeding servants when they are hired. SOCIAL DISTINCTION. (From the Sat nr da a Jlericn:..) One of the most curious features of modern life is, perhaps, the struggle which goes on between personal comfort and social ostentation. The writer in the last number of the IV//temporary Review who signs himself “ Etonensis,” and whose identity under any signature would be sufficiently apparent, remarks very truly that English society is just now passing under some very subtle, yet vital, changes. “ It must never be forgotten,” lie says, “ that wealth is now in England no longer the jiossession of a few, but rather what may be termed a ‘ drug.’ That is to say, it is diffused through a circle so much extended, and so fast extending, that to be wealthy does not of itself satisfy; and the keenness of the unsatisfied desire, aspiring selfishly, not to sujieriority, but rather to the marks of superiority, seeks them above all in the shape of what we term social distinction.” There can he no doubt that this is an accurate picture of what is now going on on every side ; and it certainly suggests some very painful reflections as to the sufferings which a great many worthy jiersons, whose only fault is to be very rich, have to undergo as a penalty of their position. It is not enough to have plenty of money, but some means must be found for exhibiting it, so that all the world may see and do homage accordingly. The immense development of various industries in recent years, the increase in the value of lain! and houses, and the tendency to free exjienditure on the part of almost all classes of the j/opulation, have led to the accumulation of a vast amount of wealth in the hands of peoj/le, many of whom are very ill-qualified to enjoy it. They have for the most j/art j/assed their lives in absorbing occupations of a vulgar kind, which has left them very little opportunity for acquiring either social or intellectual culture ; and all the higher ideals of existence are consequently beyond them. If they would only contrive to live in an easy natural way, it might jrerhaps be well with them ; hut then they would be hiding their light under a bushel, and what is the good of having a light unless you show it, and get credit for it • And here comes in the misery of the thing, the obligation of display. Once upon a time wealth was in itself a distinction, but now it is a drug in the market, and there are so many rich peojjle that distinction depends, not on the mere fact of their riches, but on the extent to which they can manage to make a display of them. Where there used to be hundreds of rich people there are now thousands, and there can of course be no distinction in one man in a mob being exactly like the rest. He must do something to mark himself out ; and in doing this the man of wealth is exposed to the keen comjjetition not only of people as full of money as himself, but of others who by a little dexterity are able to make a good show at a more moderate cost. Superiority is of course not an absolute, but only a comparative thing, and wealth in itself has been levelled by its commonness. There is, however, as “Etouensis ” has j/oiuted out, a difference between superiority in any of its genuine forms, such as belong to the nature of the man, and not to the accident of his money, and those “ marks of superiority” which enjoy a conventional currency ; and the latter are to a certain extent within the reach of all who can afford to j/ay for them. Rich folk can compete for anything that finds its way into the market, and most things do so nowadays. Though they may be hopelessly ignorant of art, they can buy colored canvases by the mile, and masterpieces of earthenware rubbish by the hundred. They may know nothing about books, but they can give an order to some dealer to furnish what is known to the trade as a gentleman’s library. By a judicious exjieuditure in local ground-bait they can generally get a scat in the Housoof Commons; and by a devoted attention to parliamentary business on the right side there is always a chance of a baronetcy—-for even soap-boilers are turning uj> their noses at kuigthood—or in the end a jreerage. All this, however, requires more than mere pocket liberality; and, in fact, it may almost be said that the disjday of wealth, which for most people alone makes wealth worth having, involves infinitely more drudgery and anxiety than the acquisition of it. It is difficult to imagine a more pitiful existence than that spent by unhajqiy people of this class in a desj/erato and tumultuous struggle with each other for artificial badges of social distinction. They feel bound to parade themselves everywhere, to hoist as many marks

of distinction as they can purchase or snatch at, and yet there is such a throng of others like themselves that, after all their efforts, they are lost in tho ruck.

As an instance of the prevailing ]>assion for display at any cost of expenditure or suffering, “Etonensis” takes the growing crush at Court. Going to a levee or a drawing-room is a method of obtaining an official certificate of a certain degree of social standing. It is a “mark of superiority,” and there is consequently a rush to claim it. As ydt, indeed, it is not quite everybody who has a right to this glorious privilege ; and, so far, tlie citizens of this country arc behind those of the United States, all of whom, without exeej>tion, are entitled to walk into the White House, and not only to take a good look at the President, hut to shake hands with him. Judging, however, from the sort of l>eoj)le who now compose a largo jiart of tho regular crowd at the court, any traces of the old exclusiveness may soon he expected to disappear. In former days the j/cople who went there formed a comparatively small circle, and were more or less on a footing of j/ersonal intimacy with tho Sovereign ; and the l’est of the world was content to remain outside the sacred precincts, knowing indeed that it ha/ 1 very little chance of admission. All this has been changed, and everybody of an asjiiring turn of mind, every ju'ovincial manufacturer who has set up an estate, and all the small fry of clerks in the public offices, now swell the mixed gathering at the Palace gates. “ Etonensis” argues that this is a mark of respect to the Sovereign ; but it may be suspected that what actuates most of the company is mainly a desire to be advertised in r l’hc Times. Jones goes to court in order to prove to the world that he is as good as Smith, and better than Robinson. And this indeed is very much the reason why Jones, since his lucky hit in pickles, goes into Parliament to sit out wearisome debates till all hours in tho morning ; keej/s a big house which is constantly full of strange eonqmny, who do not know, and do not want to know, their host ; takes his wife and daughters to other parties, where they are squeezed and suffocated on the stairs ; and goes to he broiled with them in an ojren carriage in the dusty block of the afternoon drive. It can hardly be supposed that poor Jones enjoys his way of life, but then it is a mark of superiority. FOOD AND HAPPINESS. (National Food and Fall Reformer.) It’s a dull world we are making of it. and verily the once merry English jreojde are being turned into a solemn, sight-seeing, dyspeptic, and grumbling nation, saddled with the nightmare of “money-making.” Dame Fortune has played us an ugly trick : she has for our j)erdition given us commercial prosperity, and we are jjretty well riding our steed to death. Selling, selling, selling, is the constant cry of the nation. We should sell the land we live on if it brought a bag full of money big enough to console us for being left high and dry on some solitary rock. These mad commercial tendencies have warped the nation’s judgement, and much that was grand and good in it has given way to superficial finery, which we can hut characterise as modernised vulgarity. Every lady wants to be smart in dress, smart in appearance, stylish in living, disdaining the dear old home cares of seeing how the bread and butter tasted, and how the ale was brewed, whether the wine had rested long enough in the cellar, and the fruit trees yielded abundantly ; how the crops stood and the vegetables fared, and, in fact, lmw we should make the best use of Nature’s gifts. That was a time of old hearty recognition of nationality which we are losing, for we desire all of us to have our wants sujqdied without taking trouble about it, and think it mean to worry about such ordinary matters as meat and drink. A pretty j/ass we have come to through neglecting tlie daily means of good food ; our tables are so badly supplied and our women so ignorant that we are taking to alcohol or stimulants, in such a way as to sjieud the best portion of our national income on it. Instead of enjoying good, well-cooked food, we shall soon he walking tubs of wines, spirits, and beer ; we shall forget how to cook at homo, and depute the whole affair to the eating-house or coffee-shop. It is all very well encouraging men’s clubs and restaurant.-', dining-rooms and cafes ; but what of the women ? They are taking to tea more and more, and are becoming less and less inclined to undertake tho duties of a housewife. We have so much to do with our persona! appearance, that everything else has to he put into the shade. It is not ladylike to handle a saucepan, nor genteel to make a pudding ; a girl may know decimal fractions, hut she must not keej) housekeeping accounts. She can j/lay a waltz by Chojfin, but could not toll you when lamb and salmon is in season ; she just knows that there are fruits and flowers in summer and autumn, and plum-puddings at Christmas, and that is tho extent of her food knowledge. Naturally she conies under the sway of anybody who is inclined to lord it over her, and is all her lifetime at sea ; how is it possible to make both ends meet ! She looks so jiretty and saucy with the new ways of dressing, that John or James cannot withstand her charms, aud off he goes to church with her to lie united in holy matrimony. Then comes the trouble—there is no doubt about it, Angelina has red eyes the second week of the honeymoon, because dear Jack got uj> from the table and said the meat was hard, the potatoes were soapy, and the jiudding horrible. He wouldn’t be quite so hard as to go to the club or to bis bachelor friends, or worse still to his mother and complain, but he sulked for half an hour in the study or the parlor, and only gave way when Angelin*' l came gently to his side and said, that horrid girl should do the cooking no longer, she would do it herself. Jack brightens iq> and sees delightful visions of lamb cutlets with tomato sauce, fine minced spinach, mealy j/otatoes, fritters brown as berries, and such a salad with

his hit of cheese and such a cup of coffee with his cigar, before him, dear Angelina with heated and proud face being all the time by his side, receiving his thanks in kisses. Well, the vision drives away dull care that night, for a man without a dinner shows his ungentle—we won’t say brutish—nature a little bit, and the next day comes with expectations wonderful in a young husband, how the little wife would manage it all. The train puts him down at the station near his villa, he rushes to tlie door and opens it with the latch-key, to hear sobs and sobs and sobs in the parlor, Angelina is in hysterics ; the dinner wouldn’t be got ready ; the chops are burnt to a cinder, the potatoes hard, there is no sauce, and the spinach is smoky. The fritters wouldn’t be thought of, and the salad lies in native simplicity in the back kitchen—for the girl has run away, she wouldn’t stand it any longer for mistress to interfere. Angelina has burnt her hand and is smarting with the pain, her curls are untidy, her dress full of grease spots, and Angelina wishes she were at home with mamma. Theyounglmsband stands aghast at this new monster that has started up in his married life, but loving his little wife, he gently consoles her, wipes away her tears, smoothes her curls, makes up the fire himself, and gets a cosy tea ready. Angelina watches his orderly (piiet ways and sighs, for she is quick-witted and she begins to see that there was something wrong about her education—that in fact something had been left out, better than all the finery she knew—the knowledge of the first wants of a home. She is very quite and demure, for she sees a black cloud in the horizon of her married life which she cannot avert, for next day dear Jack says, with a smile, “My darling, I shall dine in the city, for it is such a trouble for you to get the dinner done for me.” A link is broken, Angelina knows it, but she complains not —she has just sense enough to know that it is best to gulp down the bitter regret at her helplessness and to reply, “ Well, dear, I cannot quarrel about it, I am so awkward.” Messrs. So-and-So have a new and a regular customer, and perhaps Jack takes a little more than he would at home and gets a little rough, but there are now no failures and no hysterics. Will Angelina ever turn the scale again in her favor f